Letter from Espargal: 32 of 2010

This week hasn’t been without its excitement. Take Friday morning, for instance. At 2 a.m. my right thigh was seized with cramp; I groaned out of bed in the dark and made my way through to the study where I clung miserably on to the exercise bike until the cramp went away. (The bike is used more for hanging the washing than exercising but that’s another story.)

At 3 a.m. while my brother, displaying a toothless lower jaw, was explaining to me that he visited a Brazilian dentist for pain relief, Bobby rent the night asunder with a howl of protest at some passing animal. Returning to the study I managed to half fill a pail with water that I hurled down from the upper patio in the direction of the howl. Bobby, by that time, having set off a chorus of alarm among the village curs, had retired once more to his bed. Cursing his hide, I followed suit.

At 5 a.m. a distant thunderstorm (which had not been forecast) broke over the mountains, flickering and drumming against the sky.

At 6 a.m. , following a dazzling flash of lightning and clap of thunder, I arose again and pulled out the plugs for our electronic devices. We’ve lost too much equipment down the years not to know the dangers of electric storms.

It will not surprise you that I was barely in a state to enjoy the coffee and toast that Jones brought through to me some time after dawn. (Jones, as ever, has taken a number of pictures of the Algarve sky, which as usual, I share with you.) It was as I was consuming these that I remembered that I had left outside both the tractor and the mulcher, which were getting soaked in the first shower of the season.
Groan! I couldn’t even go back to bed as I was still in it.

The tractor was piled high with branches – the third such load - that I intended to mulch first thing in the morning. These had been cut the previous day to prepare the way for the fence being constructed along our as yet unfenced borders.

The fencers were Steve and Luis, who had finally got the project underway after a run of bad luck. This included trying to use on their previous job a tin of mis- labelled paint that promptly congealed when mixed with the thinners recommended by the suppliers.

They weren’t the happiest bunnies when they arrived here. But they got to work with gusto nonetheless, clearing the overgrown borders and digging holes for the posts. I've been trotting around the neighbours, explaining why the fence is being erected - dogs - and ensuring that I'm not treading on anyone's toes.


The garden is looking glorious. The yuccas are in bridal bloom and the pink lilies nearby are a joy to behold. I do not intend to gush. You may admire them for yourselves.

I regret to say that my desktop computer has been ill. Symptoms began last week when several programmes started behaving strangely. Then the computer started running the disk-check programme each time it booted – a warning of hard disk corruption.

I checked that my backups were up to date and rushed the device down to the computer doctor on Monday morning.

It was as I suspected. The computer techies were able to transfer everything to a new hard disk but it took them hours to undo the damage done to various programmes by the corruption. Everything seems to be working again, albeit with the odd quirk. In the interim I had to borrow back the laptop that now resides on Jones’ desk.

I was troubled to hear on the BBC news that a drug I’ve been taking for years to reduce osteo-arthritis of the knee and hip has no more effect than a placebo. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-11330747 It was mum who put me on to glucosamine and chondroitin, a combination that has served me well, or so I believed. In fact, I recently acquired a substantial new supply at a pleasing discount. And I have certainly thought that I felt better for taking it. The only consolation, according to the trials at Bern university is that the drug does no harm. I shall certainly finish my supply in the hope that the placebo effect continues to benefit me, even if the drug doesn’t.

A neighbour, Ermenio, invited me down to his wine cellar to look at the mini-museum of old cultural and agricultural objects that he has set up there. In a dozen unsealed barrels, the new wine was bubbling away, a process set to continue for the next several weeks. Hanging on the walls and standing on shelves were a host of the implements and traps by which previous generations have lived.

A solid box turned out to be an old- fashioned rat trap. Various wire devices on the walls were designed to do the same job. Some of them were intended to be concealed in the rodent’s burrows or niches.

An iron implement that looked vaguely like a set of handcuffs emerged as a hobble for horses or mules, intended primarily to prevent the animal from being stolen, according to my host.

And a strip of matted grass was identified as a sling. Ermenio demonstrated its use, whirling it over his head and shooting out a stone at lethal speed. They were used largely by shepherds, he informed me, people who had ample time to practise and were known for their accuracy with the weapon.

I was most impressed by the collection, a sentiment I shared as we celebrated my visit with a small glass of medronho – a most excellent brew.

As we left, Ermenio pointed out a group of German students who were excavating the ruins of an ancient building close by – of Roman construction, he believed. The Romans were certainly present locally; he has several Roman coins that have turned up in his fields.

Jones, for her part, has been excavating the old pig-pen in the corner of the south garden. She has hauled out barrowloads of soil and stones.

In times past every Portuguese country family kept a pig or two, to be slaughtered at Christmas. Some still do – and although only
licensed slaughterers are now (officially) permitted to do such work, the shrieks of the doomed animals can still occasionally be heard in the hamlets.

Poppy, (RIGHT) a small dog belonging to neighbours Marie & Olly, has spent a few days with us while her humans were away.

She passes the gate on a walk at least once a day and is by now thoroughly at home here, settling down with our lot within a few minutes, even if she sometimes has to share her basket with them.

It's a case of "into your basket" before goodnight biscuits are handed out - and the nearest basket serves the purpose.